Lovely Bones
by Emily Waters
Summary: The war is over. Voldemort won. Those who had fought on the side of light had been given the Dementor's Kiss. They are nothing but empty, soulless shells...The-Boy-Who-Lived, Draco snorts. What a joke.
1. Bed of Bones

Draco lies on his side, listening to the sound of breathing next to him. Potter's body breathes in and out, deep, even breaths. It is perfect, really. Draco can do with it whatever he wants, meeting no defiance, fearing no consequences... just like he had fantasized for years.

The war is over, and has been for a while. The Dark Lord won. Those who had fought on the side of light, had been given the Dementor's Kiss. They are now nothing but empty, soulless shells, devoid of intellect or will. They need a bit of "training" and then, they can feed themselves and take care of their bodily functions, just mechanically, by rote memory; but other than that, they can do nothing. They do not think, they do not emote, they do not anticipate, they do not regret, and they do not remember. They are just... dolls, really. They are bags of bones.

Voldemort gave out those dolls generously. One for each of his favorite supporters. Draco was surprised when he got his wish. Pleasantly. He lifts himself on the elbow and chuckles. So many dolls, so many rewarded heroes. Bellatrix LeStrange got Ron Weasley. Lucius Malfoy got Hermione Granger. Pansy Parkinson got Neville Longbottom. And Severus Snape... Voldemort had kept Severus Snape for himself. The Dark Lord was unwilling to part with the empty shell of the man who had betrayed him, and taken him for a fool for years and years, supplying the information to the other side, and trying to save the Boy-Who-Lived.

The-Boy-Who-Lived, Draco snorts. What a joke.

Potter's body is face down. Draco lifts his hand and strikes across the buttocks. When he delivers the blow, the buttocks shudder and flinch – but nothing else happens. There is no resistance. The body does not anticipate the next blow, and therefore does not attempt to evade it. When Draco soothes and caresses the injured flesh, he can feel the muscles relax, but that is all. The flesh does not rise to meet the comforting touch, and never will. It does not know how.

Draco is tired. He just wants to get off and go to sleep. He mounts Potter's, and spreads his buttocks, exposing his opening. He casts a few lubrication spells, and without any further deliberation, thrusts into him. Potter's entire body tenses and shudders, as Draco fucks Potter's hole, quickly and ungently, and finally, orgasms inside him. When Draco pulls out, there is a small trace of blood left on his cock, and Potter's body shudders again at the parting. Draco yawns, pulls out his wand, flicks, and utters a healing spell. No point in wrecking one's toy. Especially, such a lovely toy.

Time to go to sleep, Draco decides, and stretches himself out on the bed next to Potter's body.

He used to have nightmares at first.

_In those nightmares, he would see himself still lying in bed, but Potter's body would be leaning over him, emerald eyes glowing in the dark. _

"_Enjoying your bed of bones, Draco?" Potter would taunt. "Fucking coward. Don't even have the guts to rape a real man. Content to rape a living corpse, for as long as you live. Poor sniveling bastard. Just like your father." _

_Then, Draco screamed in his sleep, screamed at Potter to shut up, or else... But Potter just laughed._

"_Or else what, Malfoy? You will what? You will... kill me?" Potter's face held an expression of mock terror, and Potter's laugh was almost friendly at that point. "You know, I pity you so much. More than I pity Ron, or Hermione, or Neville, or myself. At least, we are not pretending to be anything but empty shells and animated corpses." _

Draco sighs deeply, and buries his face in the pillow. He started taking the dreamless sleep potion. He no longer has the nightmares, but the memory of them is still enough to unnerve him. But that will pass, in time. After all, none of the other Death Eaters had nightmares from playing with their dolls...so why should he?

Draco reaches over to Potter's body and pats Potter's back.

"Good night, Potter," Draco says with a crooked smirk. "Yes, to answer your question, I am enjoying my bed of bones. Quite a bit. And such lovely bones, too."

Then, the lights go out, and the darkness is absolute. The silence is only punctuated by the sounds of breathing. The breathing of one man is even and measured, almost mechanical. The breathing of the other, just a little more human.

**The End.**


	2. Blink

The setting looks almost romantic. The lights are dimmed, and the fireplace is dancing with light, casting shadows throughout the room. The table is set for dinner. There is a bottle of wine, there is food – each plate a rice pilaf with a boneless trout fillet positioned prettily on top of it, decorated with a tiniest tender twig of dill. Lucius Malfoy stares into his plate grimly. Across from him, sits Hermione Granger – or a well-dressed, perfectly groomed body that used to be her. Her hair is silky and long, falling down to her shoulders. She is wearing a gown that used to be Narcissa's – before Narcissa had been killed by Voldemort for trying to lie about Harry Potter and save the wretched boy's life. Idiot woman is dead now.

Well... better to be dead, than to be like Hermione Granger, who is now an empty soulless shell, and nothing more.

She had been given the Dementor's Kiss. She was the first one to receive it. Even before Severus Snape, even before Harry Potter. It's not that she had enraged Voldemort more than any others. The Dark Lord simply decided she was too smart for her own good – and he was not going to take any chances. Lucius smirks without happiness. Even on the day of her execution, Hermione Granger had not disappointed Voldemort. She used the Undetectable Extension Charm to conceal two pounds of sugar-free chocolate in her mouth. It took the Dementor a good hour to overcome that little snag. But eventually, she had ran out of chocolate, and out of time.

And now she is here. She was given to Lucius to be his little human doll. To warm his bed, to accept his pleasure, to endure his pain. She is the perfect concubine. She does not sass, she does not argue, she does not even look at her Master the wrong way. Or at all. Oh, if she only would, just once.

"Filthy mudblood cunt!" Lucius tells her with a sneer. "Say something. Say anything. You can't be ALL gone – can you?"

She is silent as she cuts her trout unhurriedly, in slow, measured motions, without looking at her plate. She is always looking in front of her, just looking ahead, as if her lifeless gaze is seeking out some event in the distant future that is worthy of fixing upon. She puts a piece of fish in her mouth. And then, her eyes blink. Just once. They blink at the exact rate of once per seventeen seconds, as Lucius had figured it out. Thank heavens that they do. If they hadn't, he would have gone insane.

"Whore," Lucius taunts her half-heartedly. "Such perfect little body. Maybe I should fuck you right here. Right on the floor. Lift your skirt, spread your legs... Force you to orgasm... maybe that will make you scream."

She does not scream, not ever. The dolls never do. They have no voice. The voice is a part of the human soul, he had been told. They will not scream for him, for their friends, or themselves. They have nothing to scream with. The vocal chords are there, but there is no spirit to drive them. No insult, no threat, no taunt, no amount of begging or pleading will change that, as Lucius had found out.

"Well," Lucius says dryly, "If I thought that giving you an orgasm would make you scream, I would do it. Honestly."

He had not touched her since he got her. Not _that_ way. In fact, barely at all, and only to train her body to perform the basic functions necessary for survival. Once the rote memory had been established, he stopped touching her altogether, even though he had wanted to, more than anything, to press his face into her shoulder, and just weep. But he had vowed to himself he would not defile her that way – not with his tears. He would rather rape her or kill her, than force her lifeless body to act out a fantasy of them being friends. In spite of all his taunting and insults, he respects her.

"You do know, I am gay, right?" he asks with amusement. "Of course you do. You must have known for years. You were rarely wrong about people, or ..." He laughs a little. "Simple-minded creatures, my so-called friends. They think that just because I fathered a son, and never took a male slave to amuse me, I am ..."

She blinks, and his train of thought is interrupted. They eat quietly for a few minutes. Or rather, she eats, and he picks at his rice. Eventually, he issues a deep sigh, and opens the wine. He pours himself a glass, and offers one to her. She ignores it – her instincts only tell her to consume what is necessary for survival. Alcohol is not necessary. Lucius chuckles when he imagines a drunk, soulless human shell, ambling into the bedroom...

"I should just spell it right down your throat," Lucius growls. "See if that reawakens something in you."

She finishes her trout, and starts eating the rice, bringing small heaps of it to her mouth. He watches her with fascination and dread.

"Hermione," Lucius says softly now, "I loved him so much. I would have changed loyalties for him. I would have defied Voldemort for him. Why didn't he tell me? Maybe your side would have won, if I and my family had defected to your cause. But whilst he kissed me, and held me, and fucked me, and told me he loved me... he never bothered to tell me that he was not really one of us."

Her face is absolutely serene and impassive, as she stares ahead.

Lucius pauses, then continues: "I guess being a spy and all, he decided he couldn't take the chance. He had no idea ... that I loved him so much. Enough to throw everything to the wind for him. If I had known, Hermione. If only I had known."

Lucius takes a sip from the glass of wine. He drinks, feeling the warmth and tranquility spread through his entire body. He drinks, and watches her eat.

"I miss him so much," Lucius says quietly. "His dark hair. His eyes... God, his eyes...I saw him the other day. Voldemort has him... well... what used to be him. His eyes are still the same. After all this time."

A single tear rolls down his cheek, and Lucius does not mind it at all. He finishes his glass of wine, and takes the one he had previously given to Hermione.

"You are not going to drink that, are you?" he asks rhetorically. She is silent, as always. "Of course not."

He still had not eaten, and he cannot bring himself to swallow a single bite. He continues to drink, and alcohol hits his stomach, spreading delicious, debilitating warmth throughout his body.

"Do you know why you are here?" Lucius asks tiredly. "It's because of him. Only because of Severus Snape that you and Harry are here, in my household. He was pretty sure he was gong to die, one way or another. He did not seem to mind. But before going in, he asked me to take care of Harry-bloody-Potter ... and, almost as an afterthought, Harry's two little friends. His words, not mine."

Lucius sips the wine again and muses absently:

"I reminded him of course... that everything was already predetermined. That once the war was over, the enemies would get the Kiss. No exceptions. Severus.. well.. he just said, _Lucius... do the best you can. That's all I ask_."

Lucius laughs bitterly. "Right there I should have guessed that he wasn't really one of us. That he was loyal to the other side. But no, I thought he was just being oddly sentimental..."

Lucius chokes down a sob.

"Well, this is the best I could do, I am afraid. Stick Harry with Draco... and you with me. Couldn't get Ron – Bella snatched him right from under my nose... not that it matters. You are not really here. I am just deluding myself... thinking that keeping your bodies alive is what Severus would have wanted. He had probably meant for me to kill you. I suppose, I should – but I can't bring myself to do it. I just keep wondering..."

Lucius weeps openly, tears flooding his face.

"I keep wondering," he speaks drunkenly, "Where you all have gone. If I can figure it out by watching you, maybe I can find Severus, one day, too... so tell me, Hermione, where do you live? Do you live in the ticks of the clock? In the blinking of the eyes?" He laughs softly, and scrutinizes her carefully, hoping to see some hint of reaction, some glimmer of hope.

He swears he sees a corner of her mouth move upwards, slightly, in a faint resemblance of a smile. He is almost ready jump and hug her, or fall at her feet and thank her – but then he realizes his mistake. It is nothing but a shadow cast by the dancing flame of the fireplace.

"Shame on you," he says reproachfully, but without hostility. "Getting my hopes up like that."

He finishes the wine, never taking his eyes off her. She is tranquility, she is loveliness, she is perfection itself. She is a ghost of the past, that had stepped out of time, and settled in his household, to comfort him and haunt him at once.

"I love you," he tells her impulsively.

She blinks.


	3. Unrequited

She watches him with sadness.

They say, when you are mad, you no longer feel the sadness, or loss, or grief... oh no, that is not true, she thinks. You feel them. You just no longer care. You no longer care, because you have found a way to cope.

He sits in silence.

She casts a spell and strips him of his clothing. He makes no protest, and utters no word. She shakes her head disdainfully. Of course he doesn't. Ron Weasley has no soul, no mind. The Dementors wiped his body clean of any such things.

How sad, Bellatrix thinks.

His body is repulsive. True, it is young, and muscular, and the smell is... fine...and the face – the face is the kind that the girls would die for – and the freckles that pepper his face and his body are supposed to make him look endearing. But they don't. She despises his appearance.

She runs her long fingernails along his body, leaving red scratches on his skin. He shudders at the sensation, but makes no sound.

She slaps him. He flinches, then his face freezes in the position it had just turned to.

She spits at his feet.

"How do I loathe thee, let me count the ways," she whispers darkly. Oh, and she could, she could name ten million thing that is wrong with his body, ten million ways that this body fails to satisfy her. But ultimately, it all comes down to just one thing. Just one thing: He is not Tom.

Oh, how she loves the Dark Lord, how she could count the ways in which she loves him; and the ways in which he would never return her love.

She glares at Ron with darkness gathering in her eyes. "Nothing that a vial of polyjuice won't fix," she tells him meaningfully. She produces it, and places a single hair in it. And then, she spells it down her victim's throat.

His body transforms – and she gazes at him, the exact physical copy of Tom Riddle, flawlessness and perfection, sitting in front of her. She kneels at his feet, and lays her head in his lap. Her hands run all over his body, and she inhales his scent, absorbs his touch, revels in his nearness.

And then, she lays his hand on her hair, and begs in a whisper,

"Forgive me, My Lord... for disappointing you. For failing you so many times. For having been unable to earn your love."

His hand is motionless and still. How she wishes his fingers would move, and caress her hair, offering even a resemblance of absolution she years to receive. But that is something she would never have – not from the Dark Lord, and not from his copy that she had created out of her soulless man-slave, and a vial of polyjuice.

Her eyes half-shut, she recites from memory:

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._

But then, her voice breaks, and she is unable to continue. So many emotions run through her: grief, sadness, jealousy, shame... and desire; desire that does not diminish with time, but only grows stronger every day, consuming her mind and soul, like a Dementor's kiss, wiping everything else in its wake.

Captivated by her own desire, she watches him in adoration, until the effect of the potion wears off, and the beloved form begins to change into the loathsome shape that inhabits her household.

Ron Weasley sits on the chair, staring blankly ahead, unaware that anything had happened, unaware of anything that will ever happen to him.

"We should do this again," she tells him dryly. "But not too soon. I don't have too many of Tom's hairs left, you know. I have to pace myself."


	4. Black Eyes

Having received the Dementor's kiss, he is without a mind, without a soul, and without hope.

And still, he is restrained, securely and inescapably.

His snow-white body is covered in blood.

His obsidian-black eyes are open in wonder.

The Dark Lord had always hated those eyes, even when he had thought that Severus Snape was on his side. The man could swear his loyalty, do terrible things to prove his worth, even killing his own mentor and friend... and yet, those eyes, they never seemed to be empty and devoid of life and passion, the way the eyes of other Death Eaters were.

Those eyes.. they are black, but not Dark.

And that's the crux.

The Dark Lord's hand holds a dagger in his hand. He runs it across the body of Severus Snape, over and over again, re-opening old scars, making blood flow in rivulets, burrowing deeper and deeper into the responsive, yet mindless flesh. The body flinches, shudders, bleeds...But those eyes... they never change. They keep gazing ahead in wonder, as if fascinated by the demise of the frail, battered body, as if mesmerized by the simple, primitive cruelty of the Dark Lord.

"Like what you see, Severus?" Voldemort laughs. He strikes the body with his hand. The body flinches. That is all.

"All your skill... all your intellect... all your passion... all your Occlumency training... and to think – you've been reduced to this." The dagger cuts into the skin just a little deeper.

The black eyes blink, but the gaze does not waver. It can't. There is no mind there, no soul.

Voldemort continues to cut, inflicting injuries, brutalizing the body of his disloyal servant, over and over again. There is so much blood. There is so much pain. And yet, there are no screams. Only the spirit can scream.

"Ah," Voldemort muses. "But perhaps you are still there, somewhere... buried deep underneath... perhaps there is something of you still left. Perhaps," he murmurs intimately, "I should just ... dig a little bit deeper."

The dagger moves again.

Unwavering, and ever unchanging, the black eyes continue to gaze ahead in wonder.


	5. Sanctuary

The Potions class is over. Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter are walking down the hallway together, returning home. To their quarters. They all live together now. They do everything together, as a matter of fact. They share meals. They read together. They go to class together – Severus carrying his teaching materials, and the three students, their textbooks, parchments, and quills.

It makes sense, kind of. After all, there's no-one else left in the entire school.

The school is deserted, abandoned, desolate. The hallways are dark and empty. There are no other students, no teachers, no caretakers, no pets, no ghosts. Even the portraits are gone. The silence is absolute, and darkness abides.

There's no-one left, no-one but the four of them.

It's been five years since everyone else had disappeared, and only the four of them were left behind. Their memories are hazy, unclear. They don't remember much. Somehow, everyone ... just... left. They got trapped in the deserted, abandoned school. All the doors are locked. All the windows are covered by metal plating, and locked as well. They are completely isolated from the outside world.

They don't understand what is going on. Or rather, the three students do not understand. Severus.. he knows. He's just not telling. But he is the key, he holds the answers... Harry is certain of that. He loathes him for refusing to reveal the truth to them, for declining to explain what is going on.

And yet, Harry is grateful to him, deliriously and ridiculously, for keeping the three of them sane, for establishing some sort of structure, some sort of routine, for demanding that they stay active, learn, do something – anything – lest they go insane from aimlessness and uncertainty. Severus' direction had kept them sane throughout the years.

Monday through Friday they go to classes, that Severus teaches. He never runs out of things to teach. Never.

Saturdays, they do chores, and go to the library to read. The Hogwarts library has changed. It has disproportionate amount of material on Potions and DADA, while many shelves and entire bookcases are completely bare. Severus does not seem surprised by any of it.

Sundays, they play board games, and talk. They talk about the distant past, the people who are no longer around, the things that happened a long time ago that still linger in their memories: Harry's first broomstick, Hermione's first successful spell, Ron's first kiss with Hermione. They never discuss what happened five years ago. Severus doesn't want to; and the three students simply don't remember.

They enter their quarters together, and undress. Only two years into their forced sojourn together, they had taken to showering together and sleeping together. What's the point of maintaining privacy when your universe is an abandoned, deserted building; and when the four of you are the only ones left in it?

They step into the shower together, and the streams of hot water envelop the four of them. Harry watches with a smile as Ron holds Hermione's face in his hands, leaning in to kiss her. Her hair is like a dark waterfall, cascading down her shoulders. She opens her lips to her lover, and arches her body out, until her breasts touch against his chest. Ron draws her close, and then, presses her against the shower wall, his hand sliding down her chest, to her belly, and then, between her legs, which she parts instantly with a quiet moan.

"I love you, 'Mione," Ron whispers furiously. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Ron," she says, her hand reaching behind him, caressing his thighs. "I am so happy you are here. I don't know how... I don't know why the three .. the four of us are all alone here... but I am so glad you are with me."

"Me too," he tells her. "Me too."

Ron lifts her slightly and his erect organ enters her sex. She gasps quietly, but then, throws her arms around his neck, and wraps her legs around his waist. They move together, under the streams of hot water, him pouring all of his passion, all of his desire into her. She climaxes with an abrupt cry, and then, Ron does as well. Done, they stand together, locked in embrace, as water runs over their bodies, cleansing them and uniting them.

Harry watches them with a warm smile, and feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Enjoying yourself, Potter?" Severus drawls contemptuously.

Harry turns around and looks at him with a smile. The man's cutting remarks and disdainful tone no longer have the same bite. Harry knows when he is loved. He can recognize love miles away, whatever shape it might take.

Harry leans against him, and presses his face to Severus' chest. Harry feels his heartbeat, rapid, uneven, as if an anxious storm is welling up within him. Severus embraces him tentatively and then says, with sudden gentleness:

"Shall we call it a night then?"

"Yeah," Harry whispers, and presses his lips against an old faded scar on the man's chest. For some reason, Harry's eyes sting with tears, but he wills them away.

They go to bed together, all four of them.

At first, the three tried to sneak out at nights, and roam around the school without Severus; but they soon discovered that there was no way of fooling him. It was as if he knew everything... somehow. He made sure they fell asleep, and slept through the nights. "It's not safe to be out there at nighttime," he had told them. "You never know what you might hear... or see. At nights, you should sleep." They do.

And the nights come unexpectedly. Sometimes, night-time starts at three in the afternoon. Sometimes, it starts after midnight. They never know when night-time approaches, but Severus does.

Ron and Hermione fall asleep first, their limbs intertwined, and their foreheads touching. Then, Severus shuts his eyes, and appears to be drifting off. Harry lifts himself on the elbow and watches him with terror, and hope.

Harry wants to know what is going on. So far, he only knows that Severus is the key. Severus is different from the three of them. Severus is the only one of them that ages.

And almost every morning, Severus wakes up with new scars on his body. They never bleed, or inflame – they always look old, as if they had been inflicted years ago. But nonetheless, every day, his body carries more and more scars: horrifying, deep, disfiguring, terrible scars, that speak of torture more awful than words can express. Severus never explains. Eventually, Harry had given up on asking. But this time, Harry intends to stay awake – for the entire night, if that's what it takes. He wants to see where those scars are coming from.

Harry runs his hand across Severus' body, fingers trailing those horrifying marks. "Let me stay awake tonight," Harry asks. "Don't make me fall asleep."

Severus opens his black eyes and looks at him with a bitter smile:

"Trying to figure out how long I have left, Harry?"

"How long?" Harry asks, as ache grips his chest.

"I don't know," Severus says tiredly. "Perhaps fifty years. Perhaps... five minutes. Who knows such things?"

Suddenly, a loud impact shakes the school. In their sleep, Ron and Hermione stir and hug each other tightly. And then, as if in response to the explosion, a new scar appears across Severus' abdomen, running across some scars and marks that are already present there.

"You are the school," Harry whispers, his fingers connecting with the new scar.

"No," Severus says quietly. "The school is me."

Harry blinks furiously, as his eyes flood with tears once more. "Severus," he pleads. "Show me. Please."

Severus shakes his head. "I can't... Harry... you will go mad."

"I won't," Harry insists. "I am stronger than you think."

Another explosion rocks the school – and this time, a faded scar appears on Severus' face. Harry sits up, and presses a kiss against it, caressing the scar tissue with his tongue.

"I beg you," Harry whispers. "Please. Let me see the truth. Whatever it is."

Severus grasps him and draws him into his embrace. Harry places his head on Severus' shoulder and weeps in silent terror, as more and more explosions follow, and Severus holds him throughout all of them.

Finally, it's over. Severus stands up, faintly. Harry follows quickly and offers: "Lean on me, Severus." He does, and Harry bears the weight of his body on his shoulders, as they walk, together, to the room next door. Severus reaches to the metal-plated window and lifts the massive cover in silence.

The window opens, but not to the outdoors. It opens to another room, a simple chamber, where, from the chains hangs the naked, disfigured, bleeding, nearly lifeless body of Severus Snape. In front of it, stands Voldemort, with a cold smile on his face, surveying his handiwork with pride. Transfixed with terror, Harry stares at the dreadful view, unable to utter a single word. Then, just as the terror threatens to overwhelm him, Harry glances at the "his" Severus Snape, the one who stands right next to him.

"That is the truth, Harry," Severus says softly, pointing through the window to his own bleeding, mutilated form. "That is what is going on. What is out there is real. What the four of us have in here... is just a little more than a dream."

"I don't understand," Harry protests. "What happened? And what is this place?"

"You remember the war, don't you?" Severus asks.

Harry nods. The war... it was so long ago. Harry shudders as old memories flood him. Voldemort had won. They lost the war. They were taken away, separated. They were sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. And then, they received it. All of them. Including Severus. Including Ron, Hermione and Harry.

"We are dead," Harry says quietly. "Is this it?"

"Almost," Severus says. "You see... when the Dementors were pulling our minds from our bodies, I reached for you. You were linked to those two, as usual. So... I dragged you three with me. There is a little place within my own mind. I call it Sanctuary. It is a place where one can become disconnected from one's own body and hide, when things go wrong. I have had it for years – just to be ready if something of this sort happened. That's where we are now."

Harry laughs through the tears. "You are completely mental, Severus," he says. "You ... pulled our souls away from Dementors and ... put us all into your own brain?"

Severus laughs as well. "What else could I do? I didn't have the heart to let you go, Harry. Perhaps, I should have – but I couldn't."

Harry nods. "So the school...is a part of your own mind. It's your Sanctuary... and this is where you hid us."

"Yes."

"That's why you are the only one who ages. We are not linked to our bodies anymore, at all. We will always stay the way we were when we first ... were ripped from our bodies."

"Yes."

"And the scars... When out there, in the real world, Voldemort tortures your body, disconnected from your mind... you still get the scars here... and the school is damaged... Because the Sanctuary needs your real, physical body to exist. Right?"

"Yes."

Harry bites his lip, trying to absorb the information he had just received. It's horrifying, but also liberating. Truth usually is. Severus watches him in silence.

"So what's the plan?" Harry asks finally.

"Plan?" Severus echoes. "Harry... There is no plan. Eventually, my body will be destroyed... and then, the Sanctuary will fall, as well."

Harry sighs slightly – and places his hand on Severus' shoulder. Severus is probably right, but Harry refuses to accept it – and to simply wait until the walls of their final refuge crumble, burying them all under the ruins.

"We should fight back," he says firmly.

Severus looks at him incredulously. "Oh?"

Harry smiles, his upper lip curling, his sneer worthy of Severus Snape himself. It is, however, directed at Voldemort.

"Think about it," Harry says resolutely. "Eventually, out there, in the real world, Voldemort will become overconfident, and will release you from restraints. Then, one of us will have to leave the Sanctuary... mind re-connect with your body... and kill him."

Severus shakes his head. "I've been waiting for years, Harry. He hadn't released me yet. Not for a moment. Even though, as far as he knows, my soul is long dead and gone, he is not willing to take any chances."

Harry shrugs, unconcerned. "So what? How long has it been? Five years? A bit longer? It might take decades, but he'll forget himself one day. He'll release you. Even if he does so for just a second, we'll take our chance then. We just need to wait it out and be ready. That's all."

Severus looks at him with an odd smile. "I must admit, Harry, you are taking this remarkably well. For some odd reason, I thought it would disturb you to find yourself a disembodied soul, trapped in the mind of your nemesis."

"Nemesis," Harry smirks unhappily. "What nonsense. That was years ago. I know better now. I love you."

"I love you too, Harry," Severus says softly. "I am glad I told you... It became too hard to bear this knowledge on my own."

Their hands touch and their fingers lock together.

"Thank you for insisting on hearing the truth," Severus tells him. "You are my strength."

"And you," Harry whispers breathlessly. "You are my Sanctuary."

**The End**


End file.
